"The median height for a fatal fall is 4 stories, at 8 the chance of survivial is nearly zero"
The thought pounds in my head, over and over, as I pace the barren parking garage
The number 8 surrounds me, plastered among the pillars, taunting me with a promise of death
The seductive possibility of finality, once a whisper, now a scream begging to be made reality
Suicide, an action I once could never understand, now makes more sense to me than anything ever has
What I was once believed to be a heat of the moment act of cowardice, I now understand, I have seen the underlying war
Suicide, an action brought about not by a single moment of weakness, but a lifetime of it
I saw it as giving up on the battle for life, I see it now not as forfeiture, but loss
Why am I losing this battle for tomorrow? Why do I have this weakness that emaciates me to my core?
Was I given this weakness from my father, who recieved it from his father before him? Or did I give this to myself?
A sturdy Oak stretches over me, a trophy of my life's good deeds, and yet my back is turned to these moments that validate my existence
Instead my eyes hold, focused on a growing jet-black sapling, even though I haven't tended to the dark plant in months, I am unable to remove it from my garden
It's ebony tendrils stand out in stark contrast, sure to draw the eye of any observer of my life story, the possibility of a mistake causing it to grow larger still, strikes fear into my very soul
A jeering notion, as quiet as a memory, that my mistakes have already determined my character, silently drowns out all kind sentiments, flung at me by those that are still able to love me
My mind heistantly examines the pain that my death would cause to those kind pure souls that have been tricked into caring for me, lured in by my honey, unable to see the drop of poison that corrupts me
The expected anguish rips through me, as it has so many times before, as I think of the pain my weakness brings to anyone foolish enough to come close
My life a Pandora's box of pain for those connected to it, but instead of a latch there lies a timer, mockingly marching to my demise
The timer ticks on, ignoring my desperate measures, content to countdown, until my pathetic soul is left no choice
And the timer can be set back, but only through my reliance on others, my burdens a hazard that weigh down all those who stand too near
A shrill ringing cuts through my tears, a friend, hoping to put an end to these idiotic notions, a friend, worried that their love isn't enough to stop me
The thought clawing to escape the recesses of their mind, the fear that I am beyond saving, the same fear that has already reduced me to rubble
The timer stops with a patronizing chime, its symbolism seen only by me, reminding me of the cyclical motion that is certain to be resumed tomorrow
Tomorrow now a promise, no thanks to me, but as the dusty stairwell takes me downwards, past the reassuring number sevens, the next tomorrow rises impossibly high
Another day of life, I have no idea how to reach
Deep feelings of pain vividly penned with clarity of thought and mind. Very heartfelt with strong emotions. Thanks for sharing Keegan.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
Very frightening and I pray this is the imagination at work and not a portrait of a soul in actual suicidal torment